


You and I Got Lost in It

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I wrote this a while ago so it's all finished, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26914417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You’re happy with your life, your friends, and you’re thrilled playing in this new theatre of high stakes espionage - and you and Bucky are friends. Best friends. Maybe you like things as they are, or maybe you’re both just scared of wanting too much, or not enough. But when you get sick after a mission, it threatens to throw everything off balance.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 76
Collections: Anonymous





	1. One

You spent three months in Singapore fighting heat rash and migraines, you stay pretty and you stay discreet. You play socialites, you play poker. Slowly, but surely you flip him. Codename: Le Pierrepont. Accountant to arms dealers and human traffickers all over the world. It wasn’t easy. You weren’t the only ones trying to get to him, he was already in big trouble with some big clients. But you came out on top, like you always do. But then - you remember it so clearly; a sneeze.

“Bless you” Bucky calls out while he loads the Quinjet.

“Thanks.” Your head is stuffy and your eyes won’t stop watering. You feel a little out of it but it’s probably just exhaustion and allergies. Halfway back to Manhattan you start shivering, even though you’ve never felt cold in the jet before. Buck stretches a hand from the pilot’s seat and places it on your forehead.

“You feel kinda warm babe.” For a moment you entertain the idea that for some ineffable reason your suppressants stopped working but the world fades to black and you’re not thinking anymore.

Glaring fluorescent white. Everything is blurry. There’s a large black square above you. It feels like seconds have past. Shouldn’t you still be in the jet? You turn your head to the side and Bucky’s standing in the corner talking to Tony and Pepper. New York already? You can’t make out the words - it’s like his voice is coming through water, or you are - but he sounds worried. “Try to keep still” you hear Strange say and you realise too late he’s talking to you. You wake up again and Pepper’s at your bedside. She’s smiling but she looks sad. Shit, you must be dying. Your stomach turns and you just mange to see a bucket on the tray and the foot of the bed. No, not yours. A hospital bed. You’re in the med wing. You grab it and dry heave until eventually your body ekes out some mucus, bile, and a bit of blood. You hear someone say pneumonia.

That was just over a month ago and while you’re not sick anymore, you can’t shake the tiredness. You slink into the kitchen at noon and find Nat, Pepper, Sam, Maria, Pietro, and Bucky crammed around the small kitchen table as Steve makes fajitas for lunch. While you officially operate out of Stark Tower in Manhattan, you live upstate in the restored Avengers compound, not too far from the Starks’ farm, though on most days they stay here.

“You want some kid?” Steve asks, peering at you over his shoulder.

“No,” you say mournfully, leaving the thank you implied. Sitting in Bucky’s lap, you slump down onto the table, head in your arms. You usually try to maintain some level of aloofness, a veneer of cool apathy, but lately you’ve kinda enjoyed the excuse of being sick. You wonder how long it’ll play.

“French toast?”

You nod without looking up. “She says yes,” Nat answers for you. It only takes him a minute before he’s putting hot food on the table and there’s a lot of scraping and clinking as the others get up for plates and someone gets you flatware. All the while Bucky’s rubbing your back, and warmth is running up your neck like a blush, from pleasure or embarrassment - it’s hard to say. You half rise when you smell the buttery, egg-soaked bread in front of you, resting your elbow on the table and your head in your hand. Vanilla and honey - just the way you like it.

Nat’s moved to sit on Steve’s lap while he sits on her chair, he has a hand flat against her back. Not for the first time it occurs to you how much you and Bucky act like a bonded pair, even though you’ve never wanted him that way and you’re certain he’s on the same page. You’re just friends - best friends - but just friends all the same.

“Are you feeling okay?” He murmurs, snapping you out of your reverie. He’s close enough to your ear that only you could hear him. Close enough that his chest is pressing lightly into your back and you can smell him. Really smell him. All dark and earthy - the smell of a forrest before or after rain, with a curious trail of warm, spiced apple cider. Everyone on the team takes suppressants synthesised by Drs. Cho, Banner and Strange, specifically tailored to each individual. They stopped the heat but were mild enough that they could be taken for longer periods with less risk, but they didn’t block out your scent entirely. You had a feeling that, with respect to its social function, they let the scent linger on purpose. Regardless, you took a deep breath, grateful.

“I’m just tired.” You get a whiff of worry and lean back, hesitantly rubbing your cheek against his neck, as much for his comfort as yours.

“You feel warm.” His speaks practically against your ear, his voice appealing and gravelly. You can’t help but guiltily press into him a little more, hoping he won’t notice. His concern wasn’t without justification. The pneumonia had lasted longer than anyone expected. Both your lungs had been half filled with fluid, your temperature didn’t fall below 40°c for a full ten days, and you were barely awake the first week. Even after that you couldn’t keep anything down. It was two weeks in the hospital wing with an IV pumping antibiotics and nutrients into your body, followed by a week of bedrest. And Bucky had insisted on being near you the whole time. He must be tired too. “Will you get someone to do another check up, please? For me?” His voice was even lower, huskier. Was he actually trying to Alpha you? “Ow!” he yelps. Sam had smacked his head, startling you both.

“Could you two stop being weird while we’re trying to eat?”

“Yeah Buck get a grip.” You straighten up, mock contempt in your voice in an attempt to hide your own embarrassment. He rubs the back of his head and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like _sorry_.

Vision and Strange are playing Go in the latter’s office when you poke your head in, knocking to draw attention to your presence.

“Miss Park,” he addresses you formally, by the only name anyone knows. “How can I help you?” he asks as Vision discretely walks into an adjoining room to give you some privacy.

“I just feel very tired, all the time, but not sleepy just… weak. And I’m constantly groggy and thirsty and then suddenly it feels like I’m burning and the next moment I’m freezing and sometimes it feels like my lungs aren’t expanding properly you know? Like I can’t take a full breathe anymore and it’s all very, very frustrating.” This last part you say emphatically and, to your surprise and annoyance, you feel yourself becoming strangely emotional. He nods knowingly, understandingly.

“Well a lot of that - the fatigue and breathlessness in particular - is your body trying to recover from the physical trauma it endured while you were sick. And…” he trails off. You’ve never known him to be shy but that’s exactly what this is. “Your other symptoms suggest that you are likely experiencing pre-heat.”

“Excuse me?” You snap to attention, all grogginess dissipated. You wish to god that Cho was on duty instead

“Well…” he’s face is pink. You would think it was funny if you yourself weren’t so uncomfortable. “Like I told you, we couldn’t give you suppressants while you were on antibiotics. Especially since you weren’t eating anything. It could have caused sever gastro-intestinal problems.”

“Doc I haven’t - that hasn’t - it’s been three years.”

“Excuse me?” Now it was his turn to be incredulous. “What do you mean ‘three years’? We specifically told you you have to take a break at least one out of four months.” You can hear anger stirring under his voice, rolling off him in stifled waves.

“I’ve been working,” you say sheepishly.

“Kiddo,” he mellows, but he speaks with deep concern, stepping closer to you, “your body’s still recovering from being sick, that compounded with this being the first heat in three years, it’s - it’s not good.” You chew your bottom lip nervously.

“I’m not going to die am I?” He lets out a short, airy laugh. Smiles.

“No nothing like that. But it will hurt - a lot - and it might feel that way.” He has a hand lightly on your elbow, and he’s studying you. You’re still not looking at him and you can feel your cheeks burning. At least as much as Tony and Pepper, though occasionally it seemed like more, the Beta doctor had assumed the role of your adoptive parent, and there is nothing more embarrassing than discussing going into heat with one of your parents.

“Isn’t there some sort of, I don’t know - emergency suppressant?”

“I’m afraid not. Not after taking such a long break from them after not taking a break for so long.” You nodded slowly, still worrying your bottom lip, still not looking at him.

“Listen, if it gets too bad, you call okay? You call and we’ll - we’ll sort something out alright? I promise.” You nod again.

Before you leave he piles hot and cold packs into your arms, and a box of the strongest painkillers he can give you, though he says they only might help. As you walk out the door, he calls after you.

“Does anyone take the stipulated breaks?”

“Honestly? No.”

He watches your receding back.

“Friday,” he says once you’re out of earshot. “Put the kid back on medical alert.” He know’s you would rather die a slow death than ever make that call.

.o.O.o.

After depositing your new supplies in your room, you wander around the compound aimlessly. It occurs to you that you didn’t ask Strange how long you have until the heat hits, but no part of you wants to go back. More than just annoyed by the prospect of going into heat, you were anxious. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to see you weak and trembling and begging for something you didn’t actually want. The thought was repulsive, and especially unbearable coming right on the heels of being so ill.

“Hey babe.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re standing outside my door kid. You knocked.” Lost in rumination as you were, you’d come to Bucky’s room without thinking, out of habit. He leaned against the doorway, chest bare. His joggers seemed to hang unusually low on his hips.

“Sorry,” you say, more confused than anything. “I wasn’t paying attention.” You begin to walk away but he grabs your arm, nods to his room. For some reason your brain throws up the image of him three years ago, the first time you saw him after he cut his hair.

“Why don’t you come in.” He’s smiling at you in the same, charming way he always does, but instead of mischief you can tell he’s hiding concern. You’re about to insist on going, but you realise that sometime soon, he might not see you the same way anymore. For the first time since you got here, the Alpha and the Omega of it all was going to rear it’s ugly head, and it had the potential to ruin everything. You walk inside.

“You okay babe? You seem kinda out of it.” You detest the worry in his voice, but you’re too light-headed to do anything about it. He’s still standing by the door, hands in his pockets, watching you. You sit in his chair, then change your mind and walk around the room, not looking at him, fiddling with everything you pass; the bronze stag on the side table, the uncapped pen on his desk, you graze the length of his couch with your hand.

“The doc says I’m still recovering,” you explain. “My body’s tired. My lungs are weak.”

“Why don’t you sit down.” You shake your head. This was a bad idea.

“I’m going to take a nap I think.” You leave and, on impulse, tap his torso twice as you walk past him. You leave him there, standing in what has become a perfume bottle of your scent.

.o.O.o.

There was no delicate way of putting it. Your heat hit you like a brick shit-house. You woke up burning, covered in cold sweat, your breath coming in ragged gasps and your entire body trembling. The first words you heard did nothing to help. In fact, they made you feel infinitely worse.

“Your temperate and heart-rate have reached unstable levels. Alerting Drs. Strange and Stark.”

“What? Friday no-“

“You are on medical alert.”

“Jesus Christ.” Strange. What an arse. Stumbling out of bed, you fumble through the pile of hot and cold packs, looking for the box of pills in an attempt to head off the pain. It’s too late. The nausea’s kicked in and as soon as you try to swallow them you gag. One convulsion begets another, and you double over in pain. Sliding to the floor with your back against the cool wall. The cavalry’s coming and there’s nothing you can do about it, so you wait in resignation.

Sure enough it’s not five minutes before Strange, Tony and Pepper are in your room.

“This is ridiculous,” you say with as much bite as you can muster, which isn’t much.

“You’re ridiculous.” Tony retorts, kneeling down in front of you. Before you can volley a stab of pain hits your lower abdomen and inhale sharply. Despite yourself, your body jerks towards him, head resting on his shoulder. Like Strange, Pepper’s a Beta, making Tony the only Alpha in the room. You can’t help but want to be close to him. Strange kneels down at your other side, tying something around your arm while Pepper strips your bed. As she moves her scent wafts over to you, with its trace of frankincense you’ve always found comforting.

“Pep-“ you begin to say, and Tony waves her over. She comes to sit next to you, and you forsake her husband’s shoulder for hers and he takes over changing your sweat-soaked sheets. You know that he’s not really jealous, but sense that he Alpha in him feels rejected and you can’t help but derive a little satisfaction from that, from denying your own biology.

“What is that?” Pepper asks Strange, looking at him with her chin resting on the top of your head.

“A mild sedative.” He taps the needle with a fingernail.

“Is that a good idea?” You could practically hear the crease in the strawberry-blonde woman’s brow.

“Maybe not. But it’s the only one I have.” There’s a pinch as the needle slides into your vein. It’s only seconds before the pain suddenly recedes, a wave coming between your body and your senses. The tension is still there, you can feel it, but it doesn’t hurt, and your heart slows down, and it’s easier to breath. A sigh escapes your lips in sweet relief and you nuzzle closer to Pepper, your nose touching her neck now.

Someone carries you to your bed. Your clothes and your skin are still damp, but you’re too spaced now to change, let alone shower, so Tony’s lays a towel down, covering your bed and your pillow.

“We should talk,” Strange says. There’s a shuffle of feet, your door clicks shut, and you are left floating in a chemical sea.

.o.O.o.

When they walk into the kitchen their worry is clear on their faces.

“Is this about the kid going into heat for the first time in three years?” Nat asks from, despite the many empty chairs, her perch on Steves lap. His arms are around the smaller Alpha’s waist, and her arms are on his.

“How did you know?” Strange asks with furrowed brows.

“The whole floor smells like orange blossoms and patchouli. She smells like orange blossoms and patchouli. This has never happened before. Ergo…”

“Not that any of us are complaining” Sam says.

“Yeah she smells great.” Nat elbows Steve in the ribs. “Ow! I didn’t mean it like that!” He digs his fingers into her waist playfully and she laughs.

“No you’re right she smells amazing.”

“Great,” Tony says, clapping his hands together. “Now we’re all caught up. Who’s going to step up and be a good Alpha hm?” Everyone’s eyes turn to Bucky, who’s looking very intently at his empty plate, arms crossed over his chest, puffing his cheeks slightly. “What are you guys scared or something?” The looks they exchange suggest that this is not entirely untrue.

“She really doesn’t like people seeing her vulnerable.” Bucky breaks his silence at last. “The only reason I stayed with her when she was sick was because she was mostly unconscious and too sick to physically throw me out.”

“She got sick at a party once,” Nat offers. “I tried to help her and she told me to fuck off. Would’ve hit me too if her head wasn’t in the toilet.”

“She threw a shoe at me once under similar circumstances,” Steve adds. “Hit me right in the forehead. She has remarkable aim.”

“You see?”

“You guys are cowards,” Maria chimes in mockingly.

“So you go then.”

“No,” she demurs. “Besides, you’re her best friend, you should do it.”

“You’re her best friend too.”

“But you’re her _best_ best friend. And trust me, she’d rather you than me right now.” No one notices her eyes flit to Sam.

“Why the hesitation Buck?” Steve asks teasingly. As if he doesn’t know.

“Oh I get it.” Sam joins the fray. “He doesn’t want the first time he bangs his best friend to be while she’s in heat, yeah?”

“No one said anything about ‘banging’.” Strange cuts in, stern enough to quell even the Alphas.

“Can I talk to you?” Bucky rises suddenly, grabs Tony by the arm and drags him out of the kitchen.

“What’s up Bucko?” The older Alpha asks placing a discrete hand on his shoulder, guiding him slowly to your room. “Why don’t you want to help out your friend?”

“She’s my best friend -”

“I got that.”

“I know her better than anybody -”

“That’s why you’re the best man for the job -”

“- so I know that if she does things and says things that she wouldn’t normally do or say, and I’m there, when it’s over she might never want to speak to me again. And I need her to speak to me Tony.”

“I see.”

“I like her.”

“I got that when you said you were friends.”

“Like I if-I-see-her-everyday-for-the-rest-of-our-lives-it-still-wouldn’t-be-enough like her.”

“Ah.” Tony pauses, feeling sympathy for the young man. In spite of all war and decades of bullshit he’d been though, in many ways he was still just a guy who got shipped off before he really had a chance to live. And Tony had found it hard enough to tell Pepper how he felt. “Does she know that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just - listen - I’m happy just being around her, and I didn’t want to do anything to risk that but, yesterday she scent marked my room, and that’s happened a few times lately but I’m not sure she realises she’s doing it, but I thought maybe, she wasn’t so opposed to the idea of her and me, like, romantically. But if I go in there now and it’s and all physical, basic instinct - she’s going to hate me Tony.” They came to a stop outside your door, though Bucky still hasn’t noticed they moved at all.

“Listen, Buck.” Tony places his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, “I hear you, I do. I even feel for you. But the doc is very certain that if it’s this bad right out the gate, she might have a heart attack and she’ll most definitely start having seizures before this passes. I think you’ll agree that it’s best none of that happens when no one’s looking. So I’m sorry but you need to get in there and figure it out.” In one deft moment he turns him around, opens your door and shoves him into your room.

“What- Tony- no-”. The door shuts behind him and he’s drowning in your scent, and you look at him - all the blood drawn into angry, deep red circles around your eyes, and he’s fighting the simultaneous urges to pounce and run.


	2. Two

“Hey babe.” Bucky hovers by the door, as if he’s afraid to come closer. Whether it’s for his preservation or your’s you can’t say.

“Hey.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine. Strange gave me drugs.” For the first time, the silence hanging between you isn’t entirely comfortable. You avert your eyes, turn to face the ceiling again. “You should go.”

“I can’t do that babe” He pushes away from the door, slowing drawing nearer. “The grown-ups want someone to stay close. It’s either here or the med wing.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.” He pauses, then adds, “please don’t hate me.” He sits on the edge of your bed, his small finger just barely touching your sticky arm. “You should get some sleep.”

“Can’t.” You never could sleep without showering. He knows that.

“Why don’t I help you wash up?” You don’t know whether it’s the sedatives, the way he’s talking, or if you’re just that desperate to feel clean, but you nod, in spite of the small far away voice telling you to pull yourself together. To not be so weak. “Okay,” he says faintly, biting his bottom lip. You don’t know if that look in his eyes is hunger or something more benign. “Okay,” he says again, louder this time.

He goes to your bathroom and comes back with the basin from under the sink, filled with soapy water, and a wash cloth. He sits down and you sit up, slowly, trying in vain to keep the room from spinning. His hands are tugging questioningly at the hem of your shirt and when you lift up your arms, he pulls it over your head. This is not the first time he’s seen you shirtless, but it’s the first time you’re not at the gym or bleeding from a bullet-hole or knife fight when it happens. He won’t look you in the eyes and you can’t look away from his. Even in the warm, low lamp-lightthey’re startlingly blue. He keeps them on his hands as they soak the cloth and wring it out. You look at the curves and angles of lips — the perfect cupid’s bow, and you find yourself wanting to touch them, to the shake the hand of whomever sculpted them.

When the cool, rough cloth touches your stomach your attention shifts to his eyelashes, then theperfect arcs that compose his eye sockets. When he wipes down your arms you study his nose. It’s only when he pushes you forward slightly and scrubs the cloth over your back that you stop looking at him, and you can hear that voice screaming at you again but for the life of you you can’t make out the words. He finally looks at you when he tugs at your shorts, biting his lower lip nervously, asking for permission. You’re too busy staring at his lips again, so he continues and scrubs your legs.He tilts your head back and drips cold water onto your scalp, sending a shiver through your whole body, careful not to get any water on your bed. When he finishes he towels your hair dry and asks you what you want to wear. Instead of saying _you_ you point to a silk dressing gown. He brings this, and a fresh pair of underwear from your drawer, desperately trying to look casual. The basin is on your side table so you take off your underclothes and wipe the parts of your skin he wouldn’t touch while his head’s turned and looking at the ground. You put on the underwear. He wraps the watery robe around you.

“Thanks,” you say with a raspy voice. He just shakes his head, clears the basin, and brings you a glass of water.

“You should sleep,” he says again, pulling away, and not for the first time you wish he wouldn’t.

“Stay.” You grab his wrist, pulling him back to your bed. “Just sit with me while I fall asleep.” He nods wordlessly and complies, sliding into your bed.

.o.O.o.

When you wake up you can smell rain, then curiously, spiced apple cider. You realise that his jumper is in your hands and you’re pressing it to your nose, that he’s sleeping bare chested in the arm chair a few feet from you bed. The sedatives are starting to wear off, pain returning by degrees to your body. The chemical fog in your brain is somewhat lifted. You need to talk to him and you only have so much time to do it. With coltish legs you walk over, perching yourself on the arm of the chair. You run a hand through his hair like you’ve done so many times, but slower and more insistent.

“Bucky,” you whisper, “babe. Wake up.” He stirs, takes your wrist in his hand, brings it to his nose. His eyes flutter open and he’s looking up at you from under lashes almost as long as yours. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispers back, his voice gravely with sleep.

“Thanks for being here.”

“You’re not angry?” He looks weary and you don’t blame him. When you were in bed with pneumonia, still in the med wing,you spat at him to get out more than once.

“I’m a little angry.” Your lips flutter in the likeness of a coy smile. “But I suppose it’s not really your fault.” You stay like that for a beat, with him looking at you and you looking at him. This isn’t a conversation you want to have. There are so many other things you’d rather say but now doesn’t seem like the time, though the hush of your room and darkness of the hour certainly makes it seem like the place “Buck—“

“Yes?”

“You remember what I said about sex?” Your face flushes.You tell yourself it’s just heat from the lamp. 

“Yes.” You nod, look away. You retrievie your hand to join the other between your knees. “Hey”, he says, taking both your hands in both of his. “You’re my best friend. You know that don’t you?” You nod, still not looking at him. “So you know I would never do anything to hurt you.” You nod again.

“What about Steve?”

“What _about_ Steve?”

“Isn’t Steve your best friend?”

“He’s okay too.” He says this so fervently you can’t help but chuckle a little.

“You’ll be careful?”

“I’ll be extremely careful,” he responds lightening fast.

“Whatever happens - whatever I say, or do, or try to do, or ask you to do, you’ll forget it? And we’ll just leave it to the Alpha and the Omega of it all? We’ll still be just you and me when it’s over?”

“Of course,” he says. You think you hear something break in his voice. He’ll say or do anything you want right now, so long as you let him stay and look after you. But when you slide down to sit on his lap, wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle into his scent-gland, he wishes he knew for sure it was a you and him thing, like it was earlier in the kitchen. He wishes he could tell you he wishes it could be like this all the time.

At first you stay that way - your arms around his neck, your nose pressed into crook where it meets his shoulder, one of his hands trailing lightly up and down your spine and the other on your knee. When the cramps first start in earnest he presses a hot-pack against your lower abdomen, then massages slow circles when they become a little worse. They get bad anyway, and you start to think maybe you want things you don’t. You want to stay this way, so you grit your teeth and take deep breaths, flooding your senses with his scent.

“Alpha—” you whine, the word dropping lewdly from your lips entirely of its own accord. It doesn’t sound like you, to either of you.His hand stops, his whole body stiffens under you, willing himself to keep a stay grounded, to stay in control.

“Yeah babe?” He’s the only one that calls you that. Bucky’s the only one that calls you that, and hearing it brings you back to yourself just enough. You purse your lips and shake your head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It just really hurts.” As if on cue, you feel your insides convulse, and your body starts trembling.

“What does?”

“Everything - you know,” you obfuscate.

“I don’t. I’ve never really been around someone in heat before. Except my mom.”

“Why would you bring up your mum right now?”

“I don’t know I’m sorry.” There’s another long, unsettled pause before you say, “it’s around where your hand is —“

“Here?” He asks and starts massaging you again.

“Yeah. That helps. And it hurts… lower.” You’re glad he can’t see your face, and that you’re already too warm for him to feel you blush. It takes a while for the penny to drop.

“Oh.” His hand stops, just for a beat this time. “I see.” The pain is getting worse, but talking helps keep your head clear.

“How’s it like when you rut, or whatever?”

“I guess it’s about the same.”

As though spurned on by your admission, the pain suddenly increases ten-fold, eliciting a sharp gasp. Your breathing becomes ragged and too shallow. Your grip on him tightens and you start squirming against him, rubbing your face against his neck and shoulder.

“What do you need babe? Tell me what to do.”

“I need - I need - “ you pant. Pain is making you incoherent, making a mess of everything. You can’t tell if it’s dark or if your vision is starting to go black. “I need it to stop please make it stop I can’t do this it hurts so much I can’t do this I can’t do this please please please -”The words tumble out of you choked and desperate.

“Okay,” he says, his voices weak and rasping and at first, then something changes - it’s not the Alpha voice exactly. It’s not demanding. He croons, like he did when he fist came in, like in the kitchen earlier.“Okay I’ll make it stop, but you have to do what I say, alright? Can you do that for me babe?” You nod vigorously. You don’t know whether you lick your lips because they’re dry or because suddenly you’re _hungry._ You’ll do anything he says. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

He shifts your body so that you’re straddling his thigh. Even through the lace underwear, the feel of his joggers and the pressure against your core is instantly gratifying but not nearly enough. Your hips rock forward entirely of their own accord. You gasp, half at the shock of pleasure and half in mortification.

“No no no,” he says, sensing your bashfulness, “just like that baby.” His grip on your hips tightens. Yours hands are in his hair now, running through it, tugging. The pain has you groaning, nearly sobbing, but you refuse to move again. He brings his mouth to your neck, applying gentle, caressing licks, and nipping at your skin. He croons in your ear, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It feels good doesn’t it? Keep going babe it’ll make you feel so much better. I promise.” You rock your hips forward again, still hesitant, but this time you don’t stop. You can feel slick starting to pool between your legs, and you know it must be dampening his joggers but it feels so damn good and he’s crooning in your ear the whole time. “That’s good. That’s good baby. Yes just like that. Good girl. Good girl just like that, just like that…” If you weren’t so caught up, you’d hear his words becoming increasingly slurred and breathless, see his pupils blown wide.

Your hands grip his shoulders for balance. You keep your head down and your eyes closed — too overstimulated to see. He slides one hand up your back under your shirt and the feel of his skin on yours almost sends you over the edge. He presses his other hand into your stomach right above your core, and it does. You gasp loudly, riding out your orgasm on his thigh, his fingers tangled in your hair, your hips snapping faster and faster as waves of aching bliss crash through your body.

All at once you’re spent, your body collapsing against his, panting for an entirely new reason. You rest your forehead on his shoulder, feel his lips against the top of your head, one hand rubbing your back while the other stays entwined in your hair.

“That’s good baby, that’s good, you did so good. Get some rest now.” You don’t know how long you stay like that, but when he eventually carries you to bed you’re more asleep than awake. Before he has a chance to pull away you grab his arm.

“Stay.”

“Until you fall asleep?” You shake your head no.

“Just stay.” He lays down on his side, facing you but not touching you. You move until your head is right under his chin, your nose touching the depression between his collar bones. You pull his arm around you and he brings his hand up to scratch lightly at the base your hairline. You fall into the soft dark of sleep wrapped in him, completely infused with his scent.

.o.O.o.

The sun’s harsh and insistent light floods your room, half pulling you out of sleep. You smell rain and spiced cider, and instinctively squirm closer to the source. Your lips brush against the corner of a mouth you know from memory is the darkest blush of peach, and decidedly pouty. You smile and half dreaming you kiss him, only realising you’re awake when you feel his weight shift, and his lips are properly touching yours.

“Sorry,” you say with eyes wide open in disbelief. But the look he’s giving you isn’t shock or embarrassment. There’s a slight crease in his brow, a burning something in his eyes, and you could swear he’s pouting in earnest now.

“No do it again.” In a swift motion he has your back, his forearms on the pillow next to you, fingers brushing the hair away from your face. You bring your arms up and clutch the back of his head, pulling him close so that you can kiss him some more. And he kisses you back, nipping your bottom lip. He pulls away a little and you just stop yourself from whining. “Are you awake?”

“Yes? My eyes are open and everything, see?”You blink up at him exaggeratedly twice.

“I mean are you _properly_ awake,” he asks, tickling your ribs, a low chuckle in his voice.

“Yeah I’m awake.” First you’re smiling at him, but you mirror his frown when you notice that his very real concern. “Why?”

“I want you to remember this. And I want you to be happy when you do.” And he’s kissing you again, slowly, firmly. “We should get something to eat.”

“I don’t want to eat.”

“We have to. Food. Hydration. The stuff of life.” You sigh and chew your bottom lip, looking just beyond his shoulder. You don’t want to tell him that you don’t want to let go, to stop touching him. “Come on.” He takes your wrists in his hands and pulls you up so you’re sitting and he’s kneeling in front of you. Almost as soon as you’re upright your robe slips from your shoulders. He grabs his jumper from the side table and pulls it down over your head. Sliding off your bed, he takes your wrists again and pulls you onto his back, your bare legs wrapped around his equally bare torso. “You ready to go super spy?” With laughter bubbling in your chestyou nod against his neck.

He pads quietly through the halls to the kitchen, surreptitiously poking his head around every corner.

“I think the coast is clear,” he mock whispers. You feel his fingers tickle the soles of your feet and you can’t help but buck agains him, half laughing half groaning. “Ssh you’re going to get us caught!” He says in the same loud whisper.

“Then don’t do that,” you chastise through gritted teeth, smiling against his ear.

“What, this?” He tickles you again, eliciting much the same response.

“Stop it!” You admonish copying his affected secrecy.

Despite your - his - shenanigans, you make it to the kitchen without passing a single soul, and to your relief you find it empty. He sets you down on the counter and starts pulling things out of the cupboards. You glance a the clock on the oven. 7:34. You hadn’t slept long at all. Everyone must either be at the gym or still in bed.

“We should stock up. What do you have in your room.”

“Peanut butter, biscuits, chocolate, maple syrup, ice-cream, alcohol, Milo… that’s about it.” He finds a basket and loads it with the likes of butter, milk, eggs, flour, sugar, bread, a bag of apples, and your favourite chilled ravioli. You appropriate a pan and a saucepan and the whatever utensils you don’t have in your kitchenette. Back in your room he sets about making pancakes while you pack everything else into your pantry and a not-so-mini fridge that had before only contained wine and ice-cream. Jumping up onto the counter, you study the back of him, how his muscles ripple as he moves, marvelling out how _easy_ all this feels. You realise that what you had before wasn’t so far away from this new intimacy. In fact, it feels almost exactly the same.

.o.O.o.

The next three days pass in much the same way. You eat, you joke around, you laugh. You watch movies, and lay in bed. You are always touching; you run your hands through his hair whenever the fancy strikes you, for as long as you want, you trace his lips with your fingers,you trace the lines of his back and of his torso, and you kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. One night you’re laying down on your back with your hands on your stomach, and he’s on his side with one hand on yours and the other tracing circles on your scalp.

“Babe?” He checks to see if you’re asleep. You’re just awake enough to hear him but not enough to respond. He sighs into your hair. “Can we always be this close?”

When you’re in pain he massages your stomach, he strokes your back and your hair, and murmurs in your ear. He helps you take the edge off, always delicate — he knows there is a line and he steers clear of it. You let yourself believe that all this is sustainable, that it would be enough.

But then you wake up, on the fourth day, with what could only described as a hangover. Your body feels foreign, there’s a funny taste in your mouth. You look over at the man in your bed. Memories of the past four days hit you all at once, but the light is different. Suddenly things don’t seem so _easy_ anymore.


	3. Three

The first morning after your heat passes he goes back to his room for a proper shower and change of clothes. You know that he knows you need some time to yourself, away from him, but neither of you say it. When he kisses you on the cheek as he walks out the door, your arms are crossed and your body is rigid. You know he notices this and you feel bad when you see the thinly masked hurt in his eyes, but such is your reaction this pain you’re feeling. Because it does hurt, like you knew it would. Like, if you were being honest, it always hurt when he kissed your cheek or your head or your hand or he lightly scratched your ear while you were drunk and lying down on his lap. He doesn’t know how much these moments mean to you — or you don’t think he does.

What you need is fresh air and perspective, so after a cold shower you grab your bag and take the private bullet train to Manhattan for a day of cafe hopping and bookstores. It’s the perfect weather for it — the sun’s out just enough to be happy, it’s just chill enough for a comfy jacket and it’s one of those rare cities days where everything is all so fresh. You soak it up, drink it into your lungs, letting the freshness become you. You buy seven new books and a new set of sheets. By the time you get back to the compound you almost feel like yourself again.

You didn’t want to go back but it’s getting dark and you don’t need the stress of being an Omega all alone in a big city at night. You don’t need to get into a fight today. As a compromise, you call one of the drivers Tony keeps on retainer, and enjoy the long ride back upstate. She takes the scenic route. When you at last enter the kitchen, hungry for something more savoury than a croissant and chai latte, all the usual suspects are there. They simultaneously turn to look at you, wearing identical prurient smirks. You smile nervously in return, eyes wide. Startled.

“So you give up your v-card to Barnes?” Maria teases. Her tone is lighthearted and by no means uncharacteristic, but for some reason this particular remark sets your heart racing.

“How big is his — “

“Nat,” Steve firmly cuts her off, always the most decent Alpha in the room. He must have seen the sudden panic on your face, or smelt it, because he’s not smirking anymore. “You okay kid?” You bob your head in the vague, circular likeness of a nod.

“Can we still call her kid if Bucky’s made her a woman?”

“Sam!”

And just like that you can’t breathe anymore - there’s a tear in your lungs and your heart feels like a hummingbird caught in your ribs trying frantically to get out. Your face is cold.

.o.O.o.

**Three years ago**

You and Bucky are on the couch in the communal living room watching the second Bond movie of the night over some Coronas and popcorn. It’s only been eight months since you joined the team but already it felt like you’d known him your whole life.

You practically have the whole compound to yourselves: almost everyone else is either on a mission or at some conference, except Maria who, unlike everyone else, takes somewhat regular breaks from suppressants and is holed up in her room, and Sam, who’s made himself scarce for a couple of days.

“You haven’t gone off suppressants yet have you?”

Between the slight buzz you have going and the inane action on-screen, it takes a moment for his question to fully register. You take a swig off your beer.

“What’s it to you?”

“I was just wondering. It’s been eight months, shouldn’t you have gone through at least one cycle by now?”

Another swig. Eyes fixed on the flatscreen.

“I don’t like the way it makes me feel.” As soon as your words hit the air they sound too honest, and you hope he’ll leave it at that. This isn’t a conversation you ever want to have with him, at least definitely not yet.

“The pain?”

“The pain I can handle. It’s… everything else.”

“How do you mean?”

You sigh in response. Clearly he wasn’t going to drop it, so you turn to face him, sitting cross-legged on the couch. You reach for a metaphor, grasping the first one that presents itself and, like you always do when you try to explain something, you gesticulate dramatically.

“It’s like — it’s like clubbing.”

“Okay…” He arches one eyebrow at you questioningly.

“On a regular day I don’t just not like clubbing, I detest it. I hate the noise and the crowds and the lights, and the sticky surfaces and people bumping into you and touching you I just — I hate it.But every once in a while I feel like I _need_ to go, you know? So I get a little drunk and I go out and then I get shit-faced and I dance with some sleazy Alphas I don’t even look at and it feels _good_ to just like, give in to these carnal desires and blow off some steam. And then the next day I wake up, and it’s like my soul returns to my body, and I want to burn the whole damn world down, because the person who did all those things… it just doesn’t sit right — you know?”

“I think so.” He pauses, mulling over your words. “So clubbing is sex?”

“Yes.”

“And being drunk is going into heat?”

“Yes.”

“I see… But it is you.”

“I know it’s me, that’s why it’s so… conflicting. It’s like I can just be living my life, perfectly happy, but then my body decides it needs something else and it completely takes over and once it’s done everything feels wrong, but I don’t know why it feels wrong because shouldn’t my body feel like me to? I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” You drop your hands, smiling shyly. You must be more tipsy than you thought. He shrugs.

“Because I asked?”

“Do you get what I’m saying though?”

“I think so. Sometimes it felt that way… being the Winter Soldier.”

“Right, yeah. I can only imagine.”

“So on a regular day, no sex?”

“I don’t know,” you take another sip, look away as if hoping to find the answer on the coffee table, “it’s like, if I imagine it in a sort of abstracted way, I can kind of see the appeal you know? Of just that intimacy, that relief. But if I _really_ think about it, it all just seems kinda gross. Plus I get overstimulated so easily I think if I had sex I might actually short-circuit in a bad way. Also I’m worried it’ll sound like stirring mac and cheese or potato salad.” Mac and cheese? _Potato salad?_ You’re definitely a little drunk.

“You know what?” He says smiling. “If I remember correctly, that’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“I knew it!” You say in playful, grim vindication. Your eyes meet and you both laugh.

“ _You_ haven’t gone off suppressants either,” you point out a minute later, side-eyeing him semi-accusingly. He takes swig in response, his finger curled around the neck of the bottle, just below the lip.

“The last time I went into rut was in the 40s. I’m way too old for that shit.” You both laugh again, the words sounding particularly absurd coming from the face of a twenty-something-year-old.

Out of nowhere you feel something touching your neck and jump. You realise it was his hand lightly scratching where hair meets skin at the back of your head.

“Is that too much stimulation?” He doesn’t say this teasingly or sarcastically like you would expect.

“No. That’t perfect actually.” You lean back into his hand to show you mean it.

He starts scratching again. A few minutes later you put a pillow on his lap and lay down. His hand shifts to your ear.

.o.O.o.

**Present**

“Jesus Christ! What’s wrong?” You’d nearly slammed straight into him, blind in your haste to be anywhere else. His hands grip your shoulders, steadying, but steady is the last thing you feel. You look up at him, breathing ragged and shallow through your mouth. You can’t speak. You can’t move. He hesitates just slightly before wrapping his arms around you. With a hand gently cradling the back of your head he guides your nose to his scent gland. “Ssh baby ssh. Just breathe, just breathe.” You inhale deeply, letting his scent like sweet relief wash over you. You match your breaths to his, feel the blood creep back to your face, your heart slow. You take a small step back.

“What happened?”

You look down and shake your head in response, purse your lips, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Do you want to go back to your room?”

“I’m sick of my room,” you spit out.

“Okay.” He has that face again — the one he wore three days ago when he asked if you were awake

“My room then?”

You nod and gesture with an outstretched hand that he should lead the way. He takes it in his, immediately brushing his thumb back and forth over your knuckles. You don’t protest.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asks once inside his room.

“I’m not hungry.” You are betrayed immediately by a comically audible growl from your stomach. He suppresses a laugh, brow raised.

“I was going to make some pumpkin orzo. If you want some.”

“Fine.” His pumpkin orzo’s pretty good. Not surprising since you taught him how to make it.

“Okay. I just need to grab some things from the main kitchen.” He begins to leave but whips around at the last second to plant a quick kiss on your forehead. He’s gone before you have time to react.

His room is just like him. One thing you couldn’t say about Stark is that he doesn’t go above and beyond in literally everything he does. Each room was designed specifically to the occupant’s taste. Your room for example is a sanctum of French and Nordic design — all scrolling moulding, light woods, and neutrals with accents of warm light blues and yellows, you’d picked out nearly everything yourself. Tony once told you that, unsurprisingly, the designer hadn’t managed to get much from Bucky himself, so they based his room on his scent. The end product could only described as rustic neutral — a little rugged, but warm nonetheless. His walls are all cotton-grey, except for some dark olive green next to the kitchenette, where his bed is. You have the same floors.

But from the second he opened his door you sensed something was off, and you took this opportunity to figure out what. Everything seemed the same. A little messy by your standards — the bedspread hastily straightened, the blanket unfolded, pillows slouched against the headboard. There’s a jumper thrown on the sofa and his towel’s hanging off the back of an armchair. His laptop’s on the coffee table. None of this is unusual. Then you catch it — it’s you. Even though the last time you were in here was four days ago, a trail of your scent lingers in his room, emanating particularly from his couch, the bronze stag, the sheepskin rug.

“The sage is looking a bit sad so I thought I’d use rosemary and basil instead.” He stops when he sees you. Despite your tepid countenance, he knows you are seething.

“Sorry about the smell.”

It takes him a while to piece together what you’re talking about.

“I like it.” He looks scared again, like he did four nights ago, like he did this morning when he realised your heat had passed.

And you feel guilty, because it’s not his fault, and because you hate that you’re making him feel bad. Crossing the room swiftly, you kiss him full on the lips. You’re on your toes, cupping his face with one hand, the other treading lightly on his hip for balance.

“I missed you today,” he says when you pull ever so slightly back.

The words are out of your mouth before you realise you were thinking them.

“I hated not being near you.” Once you hear them, you’re surprised by the weight of their truth. “I don’t ever want to be away from you.”

He looks stunned, but then you can’t see him because he’s kissing you, the basket of food dropped to the floor. First he holds your face between both his hands, then they’re on your waist, lifting you up off the ground. You wrap your legs around him and his hands move to your head and the small of your back while yours grasp his hair.

“Bed?” He asks between kisses.

“Kitchen. I’m hungry.” This time he feels your stomach growling as he hears it, and this time both of you laugh. You drop to the floor, landing silently on the balls of your feet. Your hands are still on his shoulders so it’s easy for them to sneak back behind his head, pulling his smiling lips to yours.

“Is this you or your body?” He asks. He’s still smiling, his whole face flushed a tender pink, but you can hear how fragile the words are.

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug and a slight shake of your head. You’re smiling, too, and you can feel warmth blossoming on your face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what this feeling this.”

.o.O.o.

“Your fucking suppressants aren’t working anymore,” you all but yell as you walk into Cho’s office. It had been a full week since your heat passed but you still felt aggravatingly hormonal.

“Language.”

“Your fucking suppressant aren’t working any more, _Doctor_.”

“Much better. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“I just did.”

“You gave me your diagnosis. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m feeling — things.”

“What sort of things.”

“Omega-y things. I bought pillows.”

“I’m having a hard time following.”

“I bought three pillows.”

“Nesting is natural for Omegas.”

“ _I_ don’t nest. I have one pillow. One blanket. One bedspread. The only reason why I don’t have a single bed is because Stark was too egotistical to by one.”

“So what are the pillows for?”

“Pardon?”

“What are the pillows for?”

You shrug, making a face. Entirely unconvincing.

“Do they by any chance have anything to do with a certain dark-haired blue-eyed Alpha?”

“How—“

“No one here can keep a secret, which is very concerning considering the nature of the work. Why don’t we this start again?”

“I just — I bought the pillows because his are shit. Truly just the worse. So I got two for his room and then another one for my room for when he sleeps there because sharing a pillow with his big head is annoying.”

“So what about these feelings you were talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Slumping down in the chair across from her, you rub your hands over your face. “There’s just so many of them all the time. I’m angry and I’m sad and I’m angry about being sad and I’m happy but somehow that makes me angry too and then I’m sad that being happy makes me angry.”

“That is a lot.” She pauses, deep in thought. “You haven’t been cleared for training yet have you?”

“Not yet no. Why?”

“Suppressants don’t stop you from having feelings. So if you are emotional lately, it’s because you have a lot going on. Being sick, being out of training, your relationship with Barnes — it’s enough to put anyone on edge. “

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m afraid I’m not that kind of doctor. But as your friend? I think you need to think about where specifically these feelings are coming from, and talk it out. I’ll be here if you need me. You do owe me a drink.”

“I don’t like that”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“This has been very unhelpful,” you say, standing up and backing towards the door.

“Why don’t you go practice throwing knives and maybe you’ll feel better.”

“I think I will, thank you. Do you have a headshot I can use as a target?”

“I do actually, here,” she said, flipping you off. You’d all been a horrible influence on her.

.o.O.o.

Knife practice turned out to be pretty solid advice. The repetition and simplicity helped clear your head and provided a quick but immense sense of self satisfaction. You have _really_ good aim. It was far from a permanent fix though, so when you heard a knock on your door you opened it only slightly, trying to hide your work out clothes and the fact that you were sweating profusely.

“Hey Maria,” you say breathlessly.

“What are you doing?”  
“Nothing.”

 _I need you to go faster I need you to go faster. DIG DEEPER._ You should have paused the T.V.

“I thought you weren’t cleared for training?” She pushes past you, entering your room.

“I’m not in training. What do you want?”

“Just to talk. You’ve been kinda A.W.O.L lately”

“Yeah well. I haven’t been cleared for training.” You switch off the TV, throwing the remote on the couch, and dry your sweat with a small towel, having had more than enough of the muscle-man yelling that he needs you to dig deeper, keep your core tight, your knees soft. You’d lasted fifteen minutes, if you could call stopping every minute to breathe ‘lasting’.

“You’ve seemed kinda cold lately. Angry. Distant.”

“I’m bored and not fit for human consumption.” She would know. Years ago, you wereboth caught while working the same target and spent over a week locked in a cell together. Things get real weird real fast.

“And how are things with you and Barnes?” You’re not looking at her but you can hear the impish grin in her voice.

“They’re fine.” You snap. It was fine. Except for the fact that you hated him when he wasn’t near you, and you didn’t know if it was because you were jealous that he was fighting fit and you weren’t, or because you missed him so much it was pathetic, or if you it was because you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

Not that your anger ever lasted. Not that it didn’t dissolve, as you did, against his lips as soon as you saw each other, and he kissed you smiling. Not that your anger had any staying power against his fingers casually grazing your arms, your legs, your neck, your stomach, whenever you were still and close enough. Not that falling asleep every night with your cheek pressed against his chest, your arm draped across his body, wasn’t the easiest thing in the world.

“You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

You grab a couple of Coronas from the fridge, shove a wedge of lime down the neck of each bottle, and hand one over, sitting across from her at the breakfast table.

“You never told me exactly what happened last week.”

“What about last week?” You feel a blush creep across your face and don’t make eye contact.

“You know. What happened? Did you guys —“

“No. We did not. We just… fooled around, I guess. It was sweet.”

“Sweet?” She said with a laugh.

“Yes alright? It was very sweet. He’s very sweet.” You can’t keep the biggest smile from breaking across your face.

“So you haven’t fucked him yet?”

“Come on Maria,“ you pick at the bottle label, not meeting her eyes, “you know me. I just don’tlike it.”

“Well you should probably stay away from him for a day or two then.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s in rut, and I don’t think he’s feeling too sweet. Definitely doesn’t smell it.”

.o.O.o.

There was a distinct pungency growing stronger the closer you got to his room. It was as if his insides had died and were eking out from his pores.

“You should go,” he says nearly breathless through a sliver of doorway. His hair is drenched with, limp locks sticking to his forehead.

“You thought this was a good time to go off suppressants?”

“I missed a few days.” Right. When he was with you. In your room. For days.

“You wouldn’t go when I was sick _or_ when I went into heat.”

“It’s not the same. Please just go.” The desperation in his voice stings a little, but you persist anyway.

“Why? Because I’m and Omega and you’re an Alpha?”

“Yes!” He raises his voice in aggravation. “I know it sucks and you hate it, and I hate it too but that doesn’t change anything so you just have to go okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” You try to push past him but in a flash he has you pinned against the wall, his burning, sweaty, forearm pressing right below your neck, your shirt bunched up in his fist. He leans in close, you can feel is fevered breath on your ear, snarling.

“You want to stay for this Omega? You want me to tell you to get on your knees and present for your Alpha? Huh?” He pushes a little harder. “Is that it?” Your body responds automatically, slick starting to well between your legs, and you know he can smell it — both your senses of self slipping away at an alarmingly rate.

Your breath hitches. You shake your head frantically, scared. He looks you dead in the eyes — aggression and anger and longing a perfect storm in his blue irises. You don’t know which parts are Bucky and which parts are Alpha.

“I don’t know if I can play nice right now, and I don’t want you around if I can’t. Please.”He chokes that last word out.

It’s only a moment before his grip loosens enough for you to slip away, but suddenly this all feels too old.

You lay in your bed for hours.A sick sense of guilt that you can’t do for him what he did for you slopping in your stomach. Angry at yourself for hoping that just _maybe_ it wouldn’t be a problem, even though it was that very fear that made you hold back for three years. You knew better. Of course this wasn’t going to work. How stupid for you to think otherwise. It would be so much easier if you could just fuck him. Maybe you could. Maybe you should go back to his room and let the Alpha have its way, and maybe when it’s over you and Bucky will still be okay.

Nauseating thoughts are interrupted by his smell, right outside your door. Still cloying and overripe, it immediately puts you on edge. But a few minute later it softens, and you know he’s fallen asleep. Grabbing a pillow, you slide off your bed and lay down next to him, on the other side of the door. He’s still there when you wake up, the sun beginning to crack the horizon. You change out of your pyjamas and pack a light bag. Opening the door slowly so as not to disturb him, you walk silently past, then double back, lightly kissing the side of his head. You let his scent overwhelm you one last time. Maybe it’s this that makes you decide to go to his room , to his closet. Surveying his jackets and jumpers, you eventually select the best three, based on size, softness, and how much they smell like him.

When he wakes up, he follows the trail of your scent back to his empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I clear forgot about it ~~because there were no comments until today and I have the memory of a goldfish~~


	4. Four

**Three Years Ago**

Post-Shield, post-Ultron, post-snaps one and two, one thing was abundantly clear: the world needed more than a few Americans, an illegal alien, and a couple of ex-Soviets for protection. This was a new beginning, and beginnings mean opportunity for everyone. All manner of organised crime was having a renaissance, and the worlds governments were too weak, too exposed, and had too much to take care of. And it’s not like the Avengers could have been much help anyway — Fury’s Super Secret Boyband wasn’t a secret anymore, and it definitely wasn’t going to cut it. So when the UN asked Tony Stark to assist in the creation and management of new global secret service — well, he couldn’t resist.

Enter you. You had known Maria Hill for years, often working opposing sides of the same jobs. In your brief scrapes and tousles, and one weirdly intimate week in prison, you had managed to forge a tenuous sense of camaraderie, and a deep mutual respect. When asked if she knew any spies worth their weight, you were the first that came to mind. The request was made to and cleared by your bosses at MI6, the Italian secret service, and the Federal Intelligence Service of Germany. And so you find yourself suddenly in Manhattan, being interviewed for a job for which you did not apply, by an old enemy and the indomitable Iron Man.

The moment you walk into the room he exchanges a look with Maria. He looks impressed, a little startled, she smiles and nods knowingly. Your frame is slight, even for your presentation, but you’re lean, and you radiate power. You move silent as the grave. You hold yourself with perfect awareness. Your were born into the world of espionage. For it. 

“You smell good.”

A novel way to start an interview. You can’t help but smile, amused. “Thanks. It’s soap.” It isn’t. You use odourless soap. Mostly because you have sensitive skin, but a little because you’re secretly proud of your natural scent - a sort of orange blossom, patchouli and rose concoction with a trail of vanilla and sandalwood.

“I meant under the soap.” He glances up from the papers in his hand. “You’re an Omega?”

“Is that a problem?” You know it isn’t - your resume is as long as his arm and and as impressive as the precision-shave of his goatee. Besides, Maria is an Omega and she’s sitting right there, cool as ever, the Alpha’s equal in every way. But you can’t help but feel defensive. You lean back and cross your arms at your chest, spread your legs a little wider the way a man does; to project dominance and mask insecurity. 

“It seems to me that having any smell is counter-productive to your job. Especially such a distinctive one.” There is something in his voice you work hard to decipher. A sort of affected, critical condescension. He’s testing you. 

You force yourself to visibly relax and keep the snark and attitude out of your voice. “I don’t use suppressants when I’m not working and my employers have been a little too preoccupied with… everything, to require much use of my particular skill-set.” He raises his eyebrows and nods, accepting the logic.

“Name please.” You grin, furrow your brows, humoured by the abrupt change of subject, his tone, and the sheer ridiculousness of the question.

“You have my file right in front of you. In your hand. You’re looking at it right now”

“Name please,” he repeats in that same all-business voice without looking up.

“Edith Park”

“Real name?” You smile again, impetuous. “What’s the name on your birth certificate?”

“I’ve never seen my birth certificate.” This is true. What you don’t say is that you aren’t sure you have one.

“What did your parents call you?”

“Baby. Or kid.”

“What were you called in school?” Already he is beginning to sound exasperated. You wish you’d set a timer — it looks like a new record.

“Kid. Or baby.” Your smile widens. He finally looks up, cocks an eyebrow questioningly in your direction. “Homeschool,” you explain.

“What do your colleagues and employers call you?”

“Well if I like them, Miss Park, or Edith if I’ve annoyed them somehow. Mostly, they also just called me kid.”

“Well, Edith, what do they call you if you don’t like them?”

“Then I make up something stupid. I went by Elma Fudh once.” The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. 

“This is quite the resume.”

“Thank you.”

“Seems a little long for your age.”

“I started young.”

“Seems you have a lot of overlapping loyalties”

“I follow the money.”

“No you don’t,” Maria cuts in, her voice pitched with incredulity. “If that were true you would have come work for S.H.I.E.L.D. We made you enough offers.”

“I didn’t like your politics” you shoot back, a little too quickly, with a little too much weight.

“Ah. So you do have morals.” He leans forward, and you catch a gleam in his eyes. Stark liked you, and he’ll be damned if you weren’t on his team.

.o.O.o.

**Two Weeks Ago**

While Tony handled the big picture stuff, Steve was in charge of the team’s training and field assignments. You make a beeline for the gym, knowing that he likes to start his ridiculously long workout at the crack of dawn. Sure enough he’s there, assaulting a punching bag, already covered in a thick sheen of sweat.

“Rodgers,” you bark. He stops, steadies the bag, watches you walk briskly towards him.

“What are you doing up so early?” Clearly, that’s not the only thing that has him stumped . The duffle bag,the clothes you wear when you leave for missions, your tone — he takes it all in with a creased brow. “Going somewhere?”

“Sure.” You come to a stop in front of him.

“Where?”

“Why don’t you tell me.” He watches you silently, unsure of how to respond. “I need to get out of here Steve.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m bored I’m restless I’m jonesing for work — I just need to go.”

“What’s that?” He asks, his frown growing more concerned. His index finger reaches out to pull the fabric of your jumper aside. His eyes widen when he sees a fraction of the bruise across your collarbones. “Did Bucky—“

“Surely the Agency needs more eyes surveilling Le Pierrepont’s men. I took him in. I’m still on this case.”

“Park. You need to tell me what happened.”

“I just need to go okay? I need to run a bit — I need to do my fucking job —” To your immense frustration tears start to blur your vision, but they work to your advantage. Alphas like Steve were helpless to Omega tears.

“Look, I can’t put you back in the field. You’re not even cleared for training yet —“

“Steve —“

“But you can take a car, a bike, a plane — take whatever you need and as much time as you need okay?”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely above a whisper at this point. You try to go but it’s all you can do to hold yourself upright.

“Hey,” he steps closer and speaks in a low, soothing voice. He places each wrapped hand on either one of your shoulders, his thumbs gently stroking the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I just can’t right now okay? I — I don’t know the words.”

“Okay. Go, and we’ll sort whatever this is out when you come back, alright?”

You stand on your tip-toes and kiss his salty cheek.

“Thank you.”

He watches you leave the gym, a sort of sadness sinking further into his gut with every step you take. He keeps watching, listening, long after you are out of sight. He waits until he is sure you have left the compound before he moves.

He needs to find Bucky.

.o.O.o.

**Three Years Ago**

The second he sees you, James Buchanan Barnes knows the only thing that matters is being around you as much as he possibly can. As much as you will let him. You stroll into the kitchen trailing a step behind Maria as she shows you around. You’re wearing charcoal grey yoga pants and sports bra, and an unzipped powder blue track jacket with two gold stripes running up the sides, sunglasses perched on your crown. Love at first sight. A firm handshake. A polite smile — that smile — so _smug_ , as if you know all the worlds’ secrets and nothing else matters. He sees you check out Sam. You breeze out without a second glance.

“It’s the hair.”

“What?” He looks at Maria half stupefied and half embarrassed.

“It’s the hair. Trust me, she has a type. Think World War II soldier. Should be easy for you.” She winks.

He goes to the barbershop immediately.

.o.O.o.

**Two Weeks Ago**

“Before you speak, please bear in mind that there are very few things you can say right now that won’t result in me punching your teeth in.” Tony stands over him, hands in the pockets of one his more professional suits. He had a meeting with some other directors from the Agency but rushed over as soon as he got Steve’s call.

Bucky sits hunched at the kitchen table, his elbows pressed onto the hard surface, fingers interlocked behind his head. It seems nearly the whole team has woken up to bare witness to the interrogation: Maria and Sam sitting on either side of him, Pepper next the Maria, in front of Tony, Steve at Tony’s shoulder, Wanda, Pietro and Nat scattered on the counters, and Vision standing at Wanda’s knee. To say Bucky looks distraught would be a gross understatement. Posture aside, his jumper is on inside-out and backwards, his hair sticking up every which way from where he keeps roughing it, and there are deep red circles around his watery eyes. His stature has always been slight for an Alpha, but this was the first time he looks and feels so small.

“I forgot to take suppressants a few days last week —“

“I can’t wait. I’m gonna hit him.”

“Tones —“ Steve pulls the smaller Alpha back by the elbow, nods to Bucky — “be quick.”

“I was hoping nothing would happen but then yesterday — rut just hit me you know? Like outta nowhere. So I figured I’d stay in my room for a day or two. No big deal. But then she came and she saw me, smelt me, and she wouldn’t leave so I — I scared her.”

“You left bruises on her neck Buck.”

“I know! I know. God — Can I just see her please? I need to talk to her.”

“Not right now —“

“I don’t get it,” Pepper chimes in. “You two seemed closer than ever before lately, if that’s even possible, and, I mean, Alpha’s and Omega’s, ruts and heats. Isn’t that just the way it is? What’s the problem here?”

“She’s not really that kind of person though is she?” Maria says. Out of everyone there she looks at Bucky with the most sympathy.

“Look when you sent me in there the other week—“

“So now this is my fault?” Tony snaps defensively.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying that I thought it would break us you know? But it didn’t. Maybe we fractured a little, but I thought we could fix it and it’ll just take a minute and we’ll be back like we were before, maybe better than before. But — like I said — I wasn’t prepared to go into rut, and I wasn’t prepared to see her and it’s like my body just kept screaming at me to do all these things I knew she wouldn’t like and I panicked and I told her to go but she wouldn’t and I —“ His voice cracks then, and he rubs his hands angrily at the back of head then his face. “Can I just see her please? I need to apologise.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“You what?” Tony whips around, glaring at the Captain.

“She was very upset and she really wanted to get outta here so I told her to take what she needed and just go.”

“I checked the garage, her bike’s gone,” Maria pitches in.

“Her phone’s off and she hasn’t used her credit card. Not the one we gave her anyway,” adds Pepper, checking her phone.

“Maybe she’s not going far.”

.o.O.o.

London London London how _long_ it’s been. You watch the Thames, leaning with your forearms against the railing of Tower Bridge. The sky characteristically overcast, the bridge characteristically packed. This was one of the last cities you lived in before moving to New York, and it was the first city you moved to when your parents went missing, following a handsome man who claimed he was MI6, and that he had known your father. Of course, you didn’t need him now like you did then, but he was always a good time. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to have a little divine intervention at hand.

“Hullo darling. Still Edie Park is it?”

“It is.” You turn around with a broad smile and take the cup of hot chocolate he holds out to you, his with an impish grin dancing across his face. You lean your back against the railing while he assumes your previous posture. He’s still wearing his hair short and light brown, still wearing nice suits and pretending to be a Beta.

“You have got to find a better name.”

“Coming from you _Jonathon Pine,_ ” you snarked.

“Pity we don’t have children. They could be Pine Parks.”

“Are you offering?”

“Oh behave you.” He waves his cup beneath his nose before taking a sip. “It’s been a while. I heard you were running around with a more diplomatic crowd these days.”

“I needed a break.”

“You must be looking for something if you’re back here, calling me. Your parents? Love? Buried treasure?”

A certain spark dancing in your eyes catches his. You’re lips curl in a way that spells trouble.

“Just a little mischief.”

.o.O.o.

**Three Years Ago**

“What are you doing?” It’s late, and like you Bucky’s in his pyjamas.

“I’m looking for that Wakandan heat cream thing we use for bruises,” you say, annoyed at being caught twice in one night. You’re usually smoother than this.

“Why?”

You lift up your shirt in response, showing him the angry welts across your ribs.

“I thought it was supposed to be a covert op?” He asks as he retrieves the sought after cream.

“It was.” You hop onto the counter, taking the little pot from him, and begin gingerly applying it to your stomach.

“So what happened?”

“There were… unforeseen elements in play.”

“Like what?”

“A parrot,” you mumble.

“A what?”

“A parrot okay. There was a parrot and it saw me and it sang like a canary and then this happened.” You gesture emphatically at your torso.

“A parrot.”

“Yes.” There’s a lull as he considers the optics and you tend to your wounds.

“It’ll be a pretty funny story.”

“It’ll be funnier once this heals,” you retort, lifting up your shirt a little higher to reveal a bandaged gash across your lower ribs. He lets out a low whistle.

“Stevie must be real upset.”

“Why?” You ask, a little annoyed at this shift in focus.

“He likes throwing new recruits a few soft balls at first — may I?” He adds when he sees you struggling to reach your back. Your ego recoils at the idea of accepting help, especially from an Alpha you hardly know, but you can’t deny being curious as to how it might feel for this particular Alpha to touch you. You hand him the cream.

Heaven. The answer is heaven. You don’t know why but having his fingers touch your skin, so delicately, you think trembling a little, sends ripples of pleasure through your entire body. Once he finishes, he caps the jar and hands it back, telling you to just take it — everyone does.

“You should get some rest.”

“Oh I’m much too jazzed to sleep. I thought I’d dick around in my ridiculously large room for a couple of hours than pass out around dawn”He looks at you after a moments with great consideration.

“Come with me,” he says, a sudden intensity in his voice.

“Where?”

“Just follow me.”

He picks up a red plaid flannel blanket he had been carrying and holds out his hand. You take it, jumping from your perch. He doesn’t let go as he leads the way, so you drop back and let your hand slip from his. All the hallways look the same to you and you wonder if he actually knows where he’s going. You think he’s lost it when you enter what’s clearly meant to be an emergency exit and begin to climb up. Eventually you’re on the roof. Your first thought is that it’s a cliched move but lucky for him you have a thing for roofs, so you let it slide.

“What do you see?”

“Light pollution,” you answer, pointing to the distant urban twilight. There were stars enough though, if you were being honest. But why be honest when you can be difficult?

The corners of his mouth tug upwards.

“Now put these on.” He hands you a pair of glasses that all but scream _TONY STARK_. 

“Holy shit—“ It’s as if someone has scraped away all the urban grime and artificial light, restoring the sky to its natural glory. You can see the milky way, and all the many varied shades of night.

“I told Tony once that I miss how the sky used to look and he made these. You can keep them, I’m pretty sure he has a couple more laying around.”

You lay down side-by-side on the blanket he’s spread out on the grass and watch the stars move across the sky, falling swiftly into an intimate and well-worn quiet. All at once calm settles on you like a weighted blanket, the adrenaline noise whizzing through your veins silenced.

You wake up slowly, by degrees. With your eyes still shut you don’t know where you are, but it smells like the woods before a storm breaks, and a whiff of spiced apple cider, so you feel warm and content despite the chill breeze playing across your face. You vaguely register someone’s warm hand on your knee, a thumb grazing absent-mindedly across your skin. You open your eyes and discover you’re still on the roof. A grey dawn is breaking and the warm body next to you is Bucky, still asleep, his face turned towards yours. His newly cropped hair brushes his forehead, and you reach out to find it soft. You’re glad he got it cut — he looks younger now, and distinctly handsome instead of grizzled. You’re not sure why everyone’s spent the last week teasing him incessantly about it. Even in sleep he looks sulky in that way only stupidly attractive people can get away with. He shifts a little, and it’s only now you realise that the hand on your knee is his, and to your immense surprise, you don’t mind one bit.

 _Shit._ You’re in love

.o.O.o.

**Last Night**

Maybe there were better ways of blowing off steam and reconnecting with yourself than flying across the Atlantic, meeting up with the Norse God of mischief, and spending two weeks getting into fights with whatever Alpha looked at you funny, especially when you yourself were not technically fighting fit. But whatever they were, they eluded you, because that’s exactly what you did. It was however, probably a wise decision to call it a quits when Loki refused to keep healing you, leaving a few broken ribs and a patchwork of bruises to prove a point. Looking in the hotel mirror before you left, you couldn’t tell if Bucky’s bruise had faded completely or if it was just lost amongst the many others.

You had switched off your phone before he had the chance to call, before any of them did. Unsurprisingly, your phone goes haywire with an influx of notifications when you switch it back on. Most are missed calls from Tony and Pepper, a few from Cap, a couple from Maria telling you to please get your arse home before her birthday — but only one from Bucky, a voice message dated the day after you left. You hesitate, worrying your bottom lip. You tap play.

“Hey babe,” already you can hear the pain in his voice, and you almost feel bad for him. “I just — I wanted to say sorry — for scaring you like that. I’m so, so sorry.” He draws a deep breath in. “And I’m sorry about the other week, and that our first kiss happened the way it did, I’m sorry this all happened so fast and that I hurt you — I never wanted to hurt you. And I’m sorry for calling you when you clearly need to be away from me but I just — I needed to apologise, and I wanted to say that — that I miss my best friend—“ He falters, and you think you can hear him roughing his face. “Jesus how did we get so lost?” He sighs again. “Okay. Well —“

.o.O.o.

**Present**

It’s late when you arrive back at the compound, the first thing you do is look for him, tracing his scent to the indoor pool. He’s drying his face when you walk in and you watch, waiting for him notice you. He cocks his head to the side.

“Hi.” Your voice barely above a hoarse whisper. You haven’t done much talking lately. Maybe you got hit in the throat once or twice.

“Can I hug you?”

You drop your duffle in response and he rushes to you, holding you to his chest, burying his nose in your hair. Despite his gentleness, you wince at the pain

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I miss you.”

“I know. I got your message,” you reply, pulling away. “What about Steve?”

“What _about_ Steve?”

“I thought _he_ was your best friend?” He knows you’re teasing, but he’s not in the mind for jokes.

“I’d die for Steve any day of the week, but you’re the only one I’d live for.” You let his words hang there for a minute, knowing that he means it, but not knowing what to do with them.

In the pool’s half light it took him a while to see your bruised skin and the brace around your ribs, but he does now, his brows knitting together with concern,

“What happened?” He crosses his arm to keep himself from touching you, chews on his thumb.

“I got into a fight,” _or twenty,_ you shrug.

“Did you win?”

“I always win.” You can’t stand these silences, the pointless conversation. “I hate this.”

“We should talk.”

“Not tonight, okay babe? I don’t want to think about it tonight.”

“Okay.” He sounds resigned more than anything.

You go to your room and he goes to his, but in the morning he’s asleep outside your door again. Perhaps against your better judgment, you kiss him, pressing your lips to the darkest blush of peach. He wakes up stunned.

“I liked our first kiss,” you say with an impish smile, leaving him speechless.


	5. Five

By eight a.m. it seems that everyone is already aware of your return — your phone in a constant tizzy of calls and messages. You ignore them all but one: Cho asking if you wanted to have breakfast with her, Nat, Wanda, and Maria, in the city. It being the latter’s birthday, saying no seems quite out of the question. You accept and tell her you’ll meet her in one of the med rooms — when you got in last night you realised you were out of heat cream but hadn’t be bothered to trek through the compound for more.

You’re standing on the counter in front of an open cupboard, one hand holding up your jumper while you apply the waxy balm to your sides with the other, when he walks in. He stops short — the proverbial deer caught in headlights. You cock your head, raise your eyebrows at him questioningly. Without thinking you lick your lips, wondering if you can still taste him from earlier.

“May I?” He asks, snapping out of it. He comes close and extends a hand. You pass the small pot and he begins delicately tending to the bruises wrapped around your legs. When he’s done you sit down, take off your jumper, and he treats your torso and back. He keeps his eyes on his fingers the whole time. The feel of them, cold, rubbing heat into your skin sparks off small blossoming ripples all over you. You look at him, but you can’t figure out what he’s thinking. It’s not until he’s finished, and he’s helped you pull your jumper back onto your sore body, and he’s capped the pot, passing it to you, that he makes eye contact, with so much sorrow and so much longing.

Cho walks in, instantly dissipating the stifled intimacy. 

“Mr. Barnes, here for these?” She tosses him a familiar clear bag of pills.

“Yes. Thank you.” His focus shifts to catch the bag. He sounds too polite, too formal. He looks at you once more and leaves the room.

“He’s so weird sometimes.”

You’re too busy sewing up your heart as it tears to respond.

.o.O.o.

You suppose it wasn’t an ambush exactly, but you weren’t prepared to see Pepper standing on the train platform. You stutter back before walking over to her, fearing her anger, her disappointment. But she looks up from her phone with the biggest smile and gives you in a warm hug, enfolding you in a cloud of frankincense. You wince against her and she pulls back, placing a hand on either shoulder.

“Let’s have a look at you shall we?” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Helen have you seen this?”

“I have. Most of her ribs are either fractured or broken but, miraculously, there’s no internal bleeding or bruising.” She gives you a sideways glance as though she suspects foul play and you bow your head sheepishly.

“Hey Million Dollar Baby.” Nat takes a playful swipe at your head. You duck, she pulls you into a hug. “You had us all worried,” she says softly in your ear.

“I wasn’t worried,” sniffs Wanda. Even so, she moves to give you a light hug anyway. “I knew she was off doing something stupid somewhere.”

“It’s nice to see you too jazz-hands.”

Thankfully everyone spends the brief train ride talking about the party later that night. No one asks you where you were or how you got injured, but you don’t know if it’s out of politeness, protocol, or if they already know. You sit between Pepper and Nat; the former rests her hand on you knee while the latter keeps an arm around your shoulder brushing the side of your neck with her thumb, as though they’re keeping you in place.

Breakfast is taken in the sort of cafe that’s all glass panels and gold frames, greenery dripping from the ceilings. The hopes that champagne and celebration would keep the focus from you meet a cold and brutal end as soon as Maria — who spent the night in the city after working late — arrives.

“I just got off the phone with Tony. He says you’re suspended until further notice, pending an official inquiry, but you’ll most likely be out for at least a month after your injuries are fully healed.”

“On what grounds?” You ask without looking up from your food.

“Reckless endangerment.” Pepper answers, shrugging when you raise an eyebrow at her. “I was going to let him talk to you.”

“Reckless endangerment of what?”

“Yourself.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, exhale slowly. _That’s fair._ For now at least you can accept the consequences. Cutting up a crepe is agonising enough.

.o.O.o.

Without training your day largely consists of walking continuously back and forth from your room to the common kitchen for the sake of doing _something_. When you walk in around noon you’re still a little full from breakfast, so decide to make French hot chocolate the way your mother taught you. Sam’s there, and to your relief he doesn’t ask about the bruises or hug you.

“I was wondering if you could help set up the decorations for the party later?”

“Why because I’m girl and we just _love_ decorating?”

“Because _you_ just so happen to be very good at decorating, and because you’re the birthday-girl’s best friend.”

“But _you’re_ her _best_ best friend.”

“That’s why I’ll be there also, and why I bought all the decorations. I just don’t know what to do with them.”

“Fine. But the place is huge, we can’t do it by ourselves. Ask Pietro and Wanda to help.”

“Why them?”

“Because he’s quick and she’s also very good at decorating and I can barely lift my arms. Plus Wanda has the —“ You allude to her powers by wiggling your fingers.

“Okay. I’ll ask them. Thanks.” A long pause and then — “I’m sorry about the other week.”

“What about the other week?”

“When you ran out of the kitchen.”

“Ah. That. Don’t worry about it. Already forgotten,” you say with a wave of your hand.

He begins to leave but stops in the doorway, his hand tapping awkwardly at the frame as he musters up the courage to say something.

“You should know though — and I mean, I know what he did was real shitty — but you should know that the boy’s been obsessed with you since he met you. Like, as soon as you walked in here his whole life became about you. And honestly? It’s hard to imagine a world where you two aren’t friends so, it’ll be great if you could work it out. Love like that shouldn’t go to waste.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So I guess I’ll see you a little later then.”

“Right, later.” You wave without looking up as he walks out the door.

“When later?” He doubles back.

“How about I finish this, and I’ll text you?” 

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He hesitate briefly before crossing the kitchen and kissing you on the head.

There was no escaping this onslaught of affection.

“Park.” Steve pokes his head through the door not long after, his voice layered with excitement and authority.

“Rodgers?”

“I need you to come with me.”

“Can I bring my hot chocolate?” You still hadn’t taken a sip.

“Sure.”

It was a well documented fact that the thing Capt. Steve Rodgers struggled with most in the world was compartmentalising his professional and personal personas. It is for this reason that, as he walks you to a conference room, he seems quite unsure of what to do with his hands. He makes as though to put an arm around your shoulder several times, always dropping it at the last minute. He awkwardly pats your head twice, and for a time that seems to suffice. Eventually he settles on placing a hand between your shoulder-blades.

“So are we going with Fight Club or Million Dollar Baby?” Tony’s already there when you and Steve walk in, the familiar impetuous glint in his eyes.

“Nat’s gone with Million Dollar Baby but I still think we should go straight Rocky.”

“Really? She’s more of an Apollo to me. What do you think?” Tony asks, turning to you.

“Fight Club might be the most accurate but I resent the association. Million Dollar Baby was depressing, and I’ve never made it through a Rocky movie.”

“How about we just go with what ever feels right in the moment?”

“I think that might be best.”

“Right then. Have a seat.”

You take the chair he indicates, sitting across from him and Steve. A voice recorder sits on the table between you.

“Sorry about this —” he says, gesturing to the devise.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

He presses start.

“So, let’s begin shall we? Why don’t you tell us what happened the day before you left?”

“Didn’t you already talk to Bucky?”

“We did, but we need official statements from both of you.”

“Well…” For weeks you had avoided thinking about it, and now the weight of it sinks into your stomach. You realise you have no idea what to say. Instead, you look at them, lost, opening and closing your mouth a few times like a gold fish, before clenching your jaw shut tight. Entirely without your permission, your eyes start watering, blurring your vision. They’re at you side in a second, crouching down, the recorder stopped. You throw your arms around Tony’s neck, burrowing your head into his shoulder while Steve rubs your back.

“I know, I know,” Tony coos in your ear. “I promise you only have to do this once okay? Just tell it once and you never have to talk about it again.”

You inhale deeply, nod, and straighten up.

“Okay,” you say, palming your eyes dry, ‘let’s get this over with.”

.o.O.o.

There’s only one person you want to see (and feel, and smell) when the interview’s over. You all but run to Bucky’s room and as soon as he’s opened the door you practically slam your body into his. After the initial shock, he holds you to him, one arm wrapped around your waist with the other cradling the back of your head, his cheek resting on the top.

“Take off your shirt.” Your voice is muffled against his chest.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt,” you say, tugging at the hem. You pull back just enough to pull the tee over his head, and the second it’s off you press into his bare skin, your nose against his indent between his pecs. You close your eyes and let his smell smother your thoughts, until all you know is damp forrest, spiced cider, and the warmth enveloping your body.

“I was so scared. I’m so scared,” you whisper.

“I know babe, I know.” His hold around you tightens.

You don’t know how long you stay like this; every time you think maybe you can let go you find yourself holding him harder. Eventually, for what feels like the millionth time in recent memory, you start sobbing. Since when does he make you feel so _weak_?

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, stroking your hair “do you wanna talk?”

You shake your head.

“Not now. I have to go,” you extract yourself from him and start walking away.

“Wait —“

“I’ll see you later okay? I need to go. I promised Sam I’d help. ”

You still have his shirt.

.o.O.o.

Decorating invariably leads to a head start on drinking, so when the four of you head back to compound to get ready it is with about about five hours worth of Coronas buzzing in your veins. A cold shower helps bring you back down a significantly, though your feet still feel light. For months you’d planned on wearing a little, glittery rainbow striped bodycon dress, but with all your injuries you opt for something a more comfortable. Instead you wear a soft, lightly flared black velvet skirt that doesn’t pinch the waist, and glittery striped rainbow jacket, which you leave unzipped, relying on the brace and a braletteto preserve your modesty.

Leaving your room you walk into him — whirl straight into his side, and he half turns, puts his hands on your arms while you regain your balance, but looking into his eyes is dizzying. _How long have you been standing here?_ _Say something dammit._

“You look nice.”

“So do you.”

He does. He _really_ does. He’s not wearing anything fancy; deep grey pants, a white t-shirt, and a navy utility jacket, but _god_ do they sit on him just right. His hair is moussed and parted the way you like, and it’s all you can do to not run your hands through and ruin it.You stop thinking long enough to press your lips to his, and everything feels better.

“Heading to the platform now?” You’re still standing on your toes, your hand is still on the back of his head.

“Yeah I am.”

You bite your lower lip, nod. Walk away. Everyone’s already waiting when you arrive, Bucky trailing a few feet behind you. Someone calls the train and you’re at the party in ten.

Across the road from Stark tower is a little bakery, that, many years ago, was struggling to keep afloat. Tony bought it, kept it running, and built a speakeasy for Agency and Stark Tech employees in its basement: Marvel. It’s huge, with hard wood floors, leather sofas and chairs, and sturdy, unvarnished tables. There’s pool and darts for entertainment, and a Stark designed speaker system integrated into the walls. In the middle of the ceiling was a large circular hole, from the centre of which hung thick skeins of multicoloured silks, to the sides, and the whole place was illuminated by strings of pinprick lights criss crossed high above your heads. It was, in short, a marvellous place to be.

In addition to the usual there were balloons everywhere and you, Sam, Pietro and Wanda had hung curled ribbons from the light-wires, paper fans along the walls, and a large _Happy Birthday_ sign. Sam had bought the good stuff, and everything exactly to Maria’s taste. She must have agreed because because she couldn’t resist whispering something smilingly into his ear and kissing his neck.

‘Birthday girl’s here,’ Steve announces to the room at large, and everyone turns around and cheers. Maria, never one for attention, gives a shy but large smile and waves, her face red in the warm lights. At 6:30 only the respectable crowd is in attendance: May and Peter, all three of the Starks, Clint with his wife and kids, and other agents who either had families with them, or to get home to. So you split off, mingle politely, eat crab cakes and lasagne, stick to white wine.

At about 8 o’clock the birthday cake is blown and cut, and guests start tapering off, most of the food is packed into take-out boxes. Generally younger, fresher faces arrive. By 8:30 the hard liquor starts coming out, your own glass of wine swapped out for a G&T. Laura Barton takes her kids home, bringing Morgan with her for a sleep over. By 9 the gathering’s ripe to switch gears entirely. For instance, you can see Sam climbing unsteadily onto a pool table, kicking the balls awry.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! All eyes on me” He yells, waiting for everyone’s attention to shift to him while Maria tries to pull him off the table. “ I’d like everyone to join me in wishing a very happy birthday to someone we all love, the Agency’s favourite daughter — Maria Hill.” There’s a riot of cheering as he pulls her up to stand next to him. She laughs and takes a bow to the tune of whistles and applause. Then, to everyone’s surprise, but most of all Sam’s, she pulls him in for a sloppy kiss.

“Angel!” She yells, breaking away and pointing at you. “Cue the music!” She jumps from the table, leaving a flabbergasted Sam staring after her. You switch up the easy-listening for 80s-esque synth rock like adrenaline shot straight into your nervous system. Crossing the room, she drags you to the makeshift dance floor, grabbing Nat, Helen and Wanda along the way. Just like that it’s a dance party. You lose yourself in a dizzying whirl, laughing at nothing in particular. Pepper and Tony dance past you and the former grabs your hand and spins you around, pulling you towards them.

“Having fun?” She screams in your ear to be heard above the noise. You nod in response, smiling. You are.

After a hot minute Tony pulls you to him and dances you in circles, in waltz position until you move closer and rest your head on his chest.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, bending his head to yours.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m going to get a drink,” you say, suddenly realising that you’re thirsty and, worse, sobering up. You tip-toe to give him a kiss on the cheek, and pull away.

Turning back, you see him pull Pepper close, hands on her waist. He kisses her cheek once, twice, a thousand times as her face scrunches in laughter and she half tries to push him off.

As you wait for your double gin and tonic it’s not lost on you that Bucky hasn’t said a word or come near you since you kissed him in the hallway. Glancing around the room you see that Wanda’s wrapped around Vision, that Nat, Steve, and Drs. Cho, Strange and Banner are playing a drinking game involving darts, and Maria and Sam are doing their best impersonation of the Starks. You find Bucky with Pietro, talking with some field agents who live in the city. You take your drink and find an empty couch, wincing at the suddenly recurrent pain. You slouch back, and let yourself be enchanted by the ceiling.

“Hey Angel.” Like Maria and Nat, Clint is partial to using the codename S.H.I.E.L.D had apparently given you when you first dropped onto their radar. You were told it was officially Angel of the Morning, because they only ever caught sight of you just after sunrise, after a successful nighton the job.

“Hawkeye.” You make some effort to sit upright, but it hurts and you end up slouched forward instead, forearms resting on your knees, palms pressed into your eyes.

He sits down beside you and you turn your head to face him. He smiles and you smile. Like Tony and Pepper, the ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agent lives on a farm upstate, not too far from the compound. So you see him often, both professionally and socially, and Nat and the twins are always sure to keep him in the loop.

“So you and Barnes huh?”

“Fucking hell.” You throw yourself back into the couch.

“Language,” he says half jokingly, holding his glass to his lips and raising a finger to point at Steve. You can’t be sure from this distance, but you think you see his shoulders tense. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I really don’t.”

“You sure? You look distressed.”

You lazily gesture at your exposed torso — the bandages, the bruises — as if it explains everything.

“What are we talking about?” Pietro dumps himself into an armchair around your table.

“Nothing.”

“Her and Barnes.”

“Yeah that shit’s insane.”

“Can we talk about something else please? Why is no one commenting on the sudden public displays of affection happening with those two?” You gesturing vaguely at Sam and Mariathrowing olives into each other’s mouths.

“They’re not so dramatic.”

“What are we talking about?” Wanda joins in, sitting on the other wingback while Vision perches on the arm.

“If I had to guess I’d say your brother and Mr. Barton were teasing Miss Park about her relationship with Mr. Barnes.”

“Oh ignore them. Clint’s turning into an old gossip—”

“Ha!”

“And Pietro’s just trying to distract himself from the fact that he’s already struck out with 3 field agents, 2 accountants, and Sharon Carter.”

“I don’t understand it, I really don’t. I mean, look at all this.” He stands, and gestures dramatically to his physique, and throws himself back down. He has a point.

“It’s because everyone thinks you bang like a rabbit,” you tease. The small party around you dissolves into laughter as Pietro turns red. Catching Wanda’s eye, she gives you a conspiratorial wink.

.o.O.o.

For awhile time passes so easily between the sofas and the dance floor — the partyaround you swelling and retracting, though none of the faces are ever his. He stays away, like the promise of shore always on the horizon. Like a sailor lost at sea you can’t look away: He talks to Steve and Nat, the three of them play pool with Diego, Steve and Nat come over so he and Diego play against Scott and Sharon, then he and Sharon play against Lucas and Christoph. He wins every time.

You dance with Wanda and Vision, with Pietro, with Nat and Helen, even with Stephen. You are happy and distracted until the second you’re not, but then the music swells or you take another drink, and you are again. Happy. Distracted. You drink, you dance, you talk, you laugh, you dance — wash, rinse, repeat but inevitably your eyes are always drawn back to James Buchanan Barnes, sitting a on a barstool, his face flushed, those perfect, _smirking_ lips — the darkest blush of coral.

You’re sitting on the couch again, all but laying down on Helen while Stephen tells his small audience a delightfully gruesome story from his days as a surgical intern. It’s a good one, but you’ve both heard it before.

“What are you looking at?” She asks as she traces circles on your ear.

“Doesn’t he look especially cute tonight?” He’s laughing at something Lucas said, red-faced, hair handsomely disheveled.

“Maybe you should tell him that.”

You have a better idea. You walk — no — prowl towards the bar, acutely aware that certain people are watching you. He’s stunned, to say the least, when you climb onto the stool and straddle his lap. The boys whistle and just like that it’s all eyes on the two of you. You start sliding his jacket off his shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking your jacket,” you say without looking at him.

“Why?”

“It’ll look cuter on me babe.” You flash him a wicked smile, put his jacket between you, and you remove your own, exposing your back and shoulders to the room. More whistles, a _Jesus Christ_ from Tony somewhere in the background. You’re still looking right at Bucky as you dump your jacket on his head and put his on. In one swift movement you jump down and drag Lucas to the dance floor.

Lucas was former Swedish Intelligence. Tall, lean, wispy blonde hair and watery blue-grey eyes — a sort of James Dean type only authentically cool instead of just certifiably. He’d joined the Agency right at the beginning, like you did. You work with him a frequently and party with him more so.

“Are you trying to make him jealous or just teasing?”

“Just teasing.”

“Well you’re definitely under his skin.”

A quick glance confirmed this as fact. he was staring at you lost, wide-eye, dumbfounded, completely and utterly discombobulated.

But unfortunately time does not freeze simply because you have an inspired moment. The night beats on and you are betrayed once again by your body. Much smaller than your ego, the moment comes, as it always does, when it completely gives up on metabolising alcohol, and on maintaining uprightness. You first start waning when you’re sitting on the couch, and you try to lean against Tony as discretely as possibly.

“Hey, why don’t lay down a minute kid.”

The next second he’s Natasha, and your nose is brushing her abs, and Steve takes off your shoes and puts his jacket over you legs and he sits down and holds your feet in his lap while Nat brushes her fingers through your hair and they talk in low voices. Then Strange is asking you if you want him to take you home, so you bolt awake and insist that you’re fine. There’s another drink or two, a few more laughs, and — somehow — cheese fries. No one’s really dancing anymore and the music’s folksy and mellow and intimately familiar and the chatter is still flowing as easy as the river in this song.

You’re sitting with your back leaning against Strange, but he says he needs the restroom so you straighten up. The room only stops swaying when you see Bucky, and you’re so, so tired of not being near him. So for the second time that night you cross the room and climb onto his lap. But this time your eyes are somber, and you hook your arms around his neck.

“We should talk.”

He nods, his hands around your elbows, his thumbs brushing your skin. You lean forward to bury your face on in the crook of his neck, your torso pressing into his. He wraps his arms around you, and you reach behind to put one of his hands under your jacket — his jacket.

“You’re right, it does look cuter on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always comments are greatly appreciated


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